Full text of "Voices"
Fad lOOl/Spnns 2.003
We realize there are a few of you whose submissions were not
included in this issue. Due to last minute changes in the staff respon-
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While not everyone's works are included here, we think you will
find this issue especially interesting. We have some great artwork,
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-The Voices Staff
*Back cover artwork by Tiffanie Townsend; front inside cover artwork by
Craig J Laudicina; back inside cover artwork by Cathleen Stark
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Artworkby: Raven Johnson
MORE THAN MORPHED MIND GAMES
By: Devin Henry
My today is very quiet some what calm. There is jazzed out background music which in my opinion is always needed for
this necessary mood along with your life's soundtrack.. All I get to hear is my pen writing for now my necessary noise is
zoned out thanks to my more than willing wandering mind, thanks brain I told my halted self quite sarcastically. It might just
be the excess of coffee running through my body that I am thinking my thoughts, of now and before. But like I said no
more music now just my pen writing louder and louder so I try telling him to try to be a little quieter but he just keeps
writing. Then it becomes apparent the unspoken cliche my head says is false at least in this situation because I own this pen
he does not own me, but the words this pens is writing those are his he possess them. My thoughts though these are mine
not his. The thing I could wish is that my mind could hold my pen and maybe bend him in such ways that my mind's pen
would write down every thought that runs, not literally running obviously, and hand it to my eyes to read. I know it is a
wondrous wish but it would save a hell of a lot of time but why should I be in such a hurry to save time because then I
would need something to put in the space that I saved, in fact I think I just did oh well life always going to be the big cycle
it is. Any ways maybe my perspective is a tad off and everything might already be doing this wish in which I have already
placed whatever in the open saved space, whatever screw this cycle I like what I think and possess so why wish for
change when your content, "write"?"""right"
Not with theblossom
lodges the thorn
But in my heart
Conjuring lost love
The yellow noise of daybreak
Complements of Day
YeUd the charcoal hush
A crust of white snow
Thin gray shadows
Sterile and cold
Tugging against it's leash
Capriciously darting and swirling
Such are the metaphors
Photo by: HtonTrojniar
Artwork by: Caitlin Derrington
Artwork by: Jason Huntress
Candlelight by Craig J Laudicina
By: Sarah Premo
A speck of dust is how I feel.
My life aU summed up.
All of what I've done, no one noticed.
All of what I've tried to do, no one
All of what Id like to do, no one cares.
Insignificant little speck.
A speck of no importance.
No one will notice when this speck is
Yet sadly I know they will, and it brings
me to tears.
This speck is tired of being small and
This speck wants to be noticed,
Yet doesn't know how.
A speck of dust is how I feel,
My life all summed up.
By: Darcy Breault
The world is comforted by it's own slumber
While I Ue awake with a burden
Much greater than the mislabeled emotional
We know as the ego.
The world is asleep in a dream
A dream I have awaken to.
Awake, I am left without words for this glorious
Somehow Ibegan this journey
I became lost as I passed the setting sun.
And as I surrender to my fears
I began to anxiously await my own return.
But somewhere my reflection caught the I
That reflects with programmed pleasure
All the chaos and drama our minds' posses.
In an instant, which spans a lifetime
I experienced the reality of our nightmare and I
cried out in this beauty.
Knowingmyhandswere filled with unconditional
I arose from the shroud called Uf e to see
Even God inspired by my awareness of the
Now, the darkness of sleepless nights
Shed rays of energy never felt by the sun
And I see that I am the dream.
The burden, merely a gift of life itself
However, it is difficult to balance this truth
Simply because you are still asleep.
Students achieving Oneness will move on to
- Woody Allen
Photo by: DevinHeury
By: Raven Johnson
By Jason Huntress
So, Frank was tellin' me
He was tellin' me it was all wrong
don't wake up
don't even try it
They've already got it won, right?
The world ended years ago -
we're just here to watch it fall
Don't dare stand up.
It's not "stand and be counted"
it's be counted' against
'Cause being true's not a bit
about being like everyone else.
Or revel in the wrongness
"Yeah, we all changed the world
in those days
Then we gave up."
And now it's your turn to give up.
Or, maybe you're not dead yet.
So. . . like Frank was tellin' me.
It's on you, now.
Lauren Olivia Photograph By: Craig J Laudicina
May you live to be 100, and the last voice you hear be mine. - Frank Sinatra
Life is like a thing you throw
out and then need.
by Craig J Laudicina
Painting below by Rachel Bommer
A Fighters Diary
Everything sad was in that little black book. Truly, its once innocent, once blank pages were now corrupted with everything that ranged from her random
discordant scribblings to small depressing caricatures that shed made of herself. It was a miserable outlet, to be sure, but within that beat up, fake vinyl cover there
awaited the reader raw, unadulterated emotion oft expressed when there was no other means for Kaiden to do so. In that book was Kaidens dark side, the side she
kept closed off from the world, the side that threatened to overtake her.
The book had begun, as noted before, innocently enough. When times were rough, Kaiden found herself using the book as a means to organize her own
troubled thoughts and feelings, but she mostly just drew ftinny little pictures. Yet this process soon became inadequate as her inner turbulence inexplicably reached
newer and newer thresholds. Soon, all her pain and confusion would be transferred into little book, that little testament of her njrmoil and frustration and then. . . well,
to be honest, there never really was an and then. It just seemed like a good idea that eventually got blown all out of proportion.
Kaiden was by no means proud of that scrapbook of personal misery; she had actually grown to hate it, in fact. After all, the book had never really solved
anything. Kaidens problems hurt her no less, and her agony felt no less acute because of the book, which was the precise reason that the girl was loudly clattering
through her kitchen utensil drawer looking for the sharpest blade she could find.
It was to no real avail, however. Being a vegetarian who lived alone, she had no steak knives and a butter knife, well, literally just wouldn't cut it. Still,
Kaiden knew that she had to act quickly before her resolve melted into a useless acquiescent puddle. Fueled by this sense of urgency, Kaiden remembered that she
did indeed have an appropriate tool, a small, folding pocketknife that shed received as a gift from her father before he passed on. Kaiden had never even used it, so
she was sure it was still sharp enough for her needs.
Then, an odd pang hit her. Was it wrong to use something so sentimental for such a grisly end? It was intended as a gift from her father, his deeply
personal and polite way of saying. Although I wanted a son, you're still all right.
What, Kaiden wondered, did it matter as she irritably tore through her underwear drawer, casually casting a colorful assortment of a few cotton panties
and several plaid boxers all over her already messy room until she finally found what she sought.
The Swiss Army knife, still in the original red cardboard box peeked shyly back at its intrusive visitor as if it was unsure of her intentions.
It suddenly caught Kaiden off guard how final this act would be. There could be absolutely no going back once the grim task was done. The blade
would sever everything, all she was up to this point. In a moment, it would be all over.
But all the miser,' would end too she had to remind herself Bolstering her resolve with this idea, Kaiden repeated the phrase in her head like a mantra.
She pushed her thumb against the little silver cross on the cardboard case and slid the insert back. Then, pinning the tool beneath her iron gaze, Kaiden withdrew it
and flipped open the longest, most wicked looking blade in the whole tool. This was it. It was almost over, Kaiden remarked to herself as she sat down on the edge
of her floor mattress. She carefijlly placed the small, evil, miserable little black book in her lap and stared at it one last time. She hated that book and its grip on her.
More so, she despised the misery therein that she couldn't overcome. One day, others would read the overwhelming sorrows nestled within those vile pages and
understand. For now, though, Kaidens time with it was over.
The young woman raised the knife as her white knuckles shook with the sheer emotional strain. She had to be absolutely sure of this. Kaiden had never
been so sure of anything in her life, she told herself, as she brought the blade down swiftly, mercilessly.
With a sickening squish, the knife pierced her misery, impaling it cover to cover with three and a half inches of low carbon stainless steel.
It was done.
A wave of relief washed over her as she casually wriggled her argyle-socked feet into her pre-laced Sambas and strode out of her apartment. Usually, Kaiden hated
cliches with a passion, but it really was a beautiful day for a walk.
Though memories leave the trees
With branches thin and bare
And winters snow
coats it's boughs
hiding dreams and cares
Behold! In spring
And budding leaves are shown
That memories lost
are bom a new
Craig J Laudicina
by: Craig J Laudicina
Every child is an artist. The problem is
how to remain an artist once we grow up.
- Pablo Picasso
I 7 : Molly Chesnut
Photograph by: Beth Shulz
What do you see?
Without your eyes?
I've seen my soul
Where my beauty lies
I've seen my truth
Rising to the sky
I've witnessed my strength
In the tallest ekn
My passions are held
In the rays of the sun
For, they'vebumtmy own skin
And turned my values golden
What have I seen?
Without my eyes?
I've seen life.
Where life lies.
by: Jamie HoUis
Genocide City Zone
By Darius McCaskey
welcome to the genocide city
Fm sure you'll enjoy your stay
we've been killing folks here
all the live long day
if you want to join us
you'll have to pay the price
your soul's the cost, so ante up
c'mon and shoot the dice
welcome to the genocide city
everyone's dying to get in
ignore your guilty conscience
though Jesus says it's a sin
if you do not join us
you'll have to pay the price
sacrifice your life tonight
to our deadly new device
welcome to the genocide city
check out time is soon
we only stop once a day
to eat our lunch at noon
if you want to join them
we're happy to grant your request
just remember one thing:
we kill with the best
Genuine poetry can communicate before it is
- T.S. Eliot
By: Allison Thompson
I need a new playtoy
I think mine is broken
I got it brand-new
I could touch it,kiss it,
caress it, lay in it's arms
And walk away when I
am finished playing.
Sometimes I would play
with it for days on end.
Sometimes not for weeks
And it worked just fine.
Then the other day my playtoy
said it wanted to be more than just friends.
I didn't mean to break it
I don't know how 1 did it
But I need a new playtoy.
Photographs by Craig J Laudicina
Drawing by Rachel Bommer
By: Ann Cline
My grandma doesn't bake me cookies and my
mother doesn't sew.
My father don't bring home the bacon, but it's all
right, ya know?
My stars don't always shine at night and my birds
don't always sing.
And sometimes in my deck of cards, there's a
queen without her king.
My sun likes to fall straight from the sky with the
moon right close behind.
But it's all good.
I have a plan
to get everything back in line.
I'll make my grandma some cookies; a batch oh
And I'll knit my mom a fuzzy scarf and bring
father home a swine,
I'll polish the stars so they can twinkle.
r 11 sing my birds a song.
I find the queen's beloved king, so the royal family
can live on.
I'll pick up the sun, throw back the moon, and
gather all the rays.
Then I'll put them up there good and tight so they
And when I'm done I'll take a nap, and dreams of
cookies, scarfs and swine.
Songs that twinkle, moons that laugh, and kings
who always shine.
The aim of art is to represent not the
outward appearance of things, but their
By Julie Smith
The heavy wood door slams on the sunshine
behind the chubby girl as she enters the bar behind her
father. The smoke instantly penetrates her freshly
washed blonde hair and bums her blue eyes. There's
dark paneling nailed to the wall and it bleeds yellow
drops of nicotine. Sunlight only penetrates the darkness
through small spaces of glass not covered by the latest
beer sign perched high in the windowsill . As she
walks with her father to his familiar stool, her feet
stick to the beer-stained floor. The blue-eyed girl takes
her father's quarters and leaves him at the bar. As the
neon jukebox cries out a somber song, she moves to
the pinball machine and disappears into the comer.
Trying desperately to look older than her 13 years, she
sucks in her stomach and smacks her glossed lips together
as she surveys the scene she knows so well. Her clear,
focused eyes meet eyes that are glazed, red and distracted.
There are greasy haired men with chains connecting their
wallets to their Levis; men proudly displaying their faded
Harley Davidson T-shirts under black leather jackets; men
holding Marlboro cigarettes between their thumb and
index finger, adding stains of nicotine to their dirt-filled
nails. Long fingered women with blood red nails and
bleached hair line the bar. Their cheap cigarettes hide
inside black leather cases with turquoise stones.
She hears drunken laughs from the bar as the
men and women begin to slur their words. They talk of
their plans and hopes and dreams while their legs grow
roots into the stool they balance on. Every Sunday, they
declare endless thoughts and ideas that are never
realized. They are only words that hang heavy in the
smoky air, soon to fall to the floor and be swept up at the
end of the night. The words stop only when their lips
press against their drinks. They sit, blind to the dmnken
mistakes they will make and oblivious to their
tomorrow's filled with searing sharp headaches and
The minutes turn to hours and hours blend
together as twilight lurks at the window. The tired girl fills
herself with pop and chips as she grows restless. Her
father's quarters have been fed to the machines in the bar
and her pleas to leave grow with intensity. Finally
convincing him, she leads the way out. Her father
stumbles his heavy frame behind her. Too eager to flee the
bar that her Sunday has been wasted in; she fails to
realize her shelter is now 2,000 pounds of steel and metal
that her drunk father drives her home in. She doesn't
realize it until the car swerves off the road, that she longs
for the safety of the dismal bar she just escaped.
by : Craig J Laudicina
Painting, n. : The art of protecting flat surfaces
from weather, and exposing them to the critic.
- Ambrose Bierce
Photograph by : Craig J Laudidna
Have blind-sided day
Gentle as a kiss.
A simple cloud
Yet europhic mind
In and out
Of concience time.
Awaken beautiful lies
My deepest desire...
Is for a simple sting
By Dena Sherman
you want me perfect
you want me normal
I put eye-shadow
to highlight eyes that are dead
eyeliner to cover sleepless nights
mascara as a shield from tears
blush to color cold, pale cheeks
painted lips for a perfect smile
put on a show
here's your picture
it says a thousand words
but isn't worth the pain it speaks
All you need is
Photograph by: Elton Trojinar
Artwork by: Andrea Wagner
by Allison Thompson
Free emd wild I ran down the road
Hiding all fears I stood tall alone
1 ran for years till your road crossed with mine
The warmth of your hand made my eyes shine
Four eyes turned two
Watching our road through blitzing eyes of blue
Two hearts turned one
Our soles on the road, our souls on the run
The road would end if we stopped too long
We both were determined, we both were strong
The road went on straight, only a couple of turns
TiU one day our road split in two
Clyde by: Craig J Laudicina
Photoi:;raphs by: Cathleen Stark
There was room on each road for two hearts that believed or room on each road for one heart with a need
You chose your own road and I chose mine
With belief they would cross, it would only take time
Scared on my own I kept to the side
Out in the middle left no place to hide
After some time, I found courage within
Quickened my pace, kept my face to the wind
Saw turns in the road, but continued to fight
Then came my mountain and my heart filled with fright
I reached out my hand and touched the cold stone
I cried out for you and felt so alone
I retraced my steps and crawled back down my road
I gave up the fight, heavy guilt filled my load
To my surprise, your road quickly arrived
So much time had gone by, it couldn't be right you
were still standing there with eyes empty of life
You chose not to choose, it was easier that way
Reliving your past, you passed your days
Aglow from your face faintiy shone eyes of blue
They were dosed to reality with your self doubting glue
I pried open your eyes and showed you the direction
But you just stared at me, said you needed affection
It was too hard to handle, too much risk to take
Once running fast, you slammed on the brakes
You reached out your hand, said don't leave me again
You hated your life and needed a friend
I told you of the mountain that you needed to climb
I promised if you did, on the other side you'd be mine
You dung to my sould and ripped at my heart
You didn't understand you had to make your own start
I kissed your cracked lips, reached under your arms and
gave you a lift .Then turned to my road, blood rushing
from my heart as it ripped Now I'm back to my mountain
with one foot on her back Clinging to the stone and not
looking back I pray that you make it, hope you find the
right road 1 pray that 1 see you there and have you to hold
Photograph by Craig J Laudicina
Drawing is the honesty of the art. There is no possibility of
cheating. It is either eood or bad.
- Salvador Dali
By: Ms Virginia Schmidt
up and down
over and under,
and foam and fish,
and birds and debris,
forever and ever,
loud and crashing,
twisting and tumbling,
with a magnitude of sound
the cymbals of a marching
the quiet times,
calming and soothing,
pouring its treasures
the waiting sand,
with effortless motion
on and on,
to kiss the shores,
Artwork by: Andrea Wagner
with tender ripples.
and gather strength
potential for the next plateau.
A poet can survive everything
but a misprint.
- Oscar Wilde
^H^ii^ — -^
By Justin Ofeleia
i can see perfect, snow falling, feathering, december night, darker you in one of your sweaters, you, angel
in yellow streetlight, just my kind of perfect, i keep that image, to rest, i wake up wanting sleep again, where
december keeps me warm, where you see me. forget them, forget everyone, i offer my hand and you
take it. where its all dark, and snow, and yellow Hght. you in your sweater, and me really alive. j
By Ryan Grove
I've got my mind set
on you - this is going to
take a miracle
by Craig J Laudicina
Click, click, clackity, clack!
The sound of the keys as the editors hack!
Red ink becomes a thing of the past
Computers present new difficulties
^expletive deleted *
Artwork by Rachel Bommer
Quiet Is A Five Letter Word
By: Jackie Sundby
After the last guest has been greeted
and shared tears have mingled.
After last eulogies have been pronounced
and hymn refrains hang sweetly in the air.
After the hearse winds its way to the cemetery
and bugle-taps no longer echo.
After the lowering into the black hole
and last shovels of dirt have been deposited.
After the last car has departed
and darkness falls.
Quiet is inside the coffin.
Quiet is a five letter word: Death
When wasted, arthrific bodies are no longer
and an old soul is free of its earthliness.
When youngsters with tumors give up the fight
and maimed accident victims succumb.
When the heart stops beating
and the breath is gone.
Quiet is a five letter word: Peace
There's no art to
construction in the
- Lady MacBeth
Craig J Laudicina, &
Photograph by Craig J Laudicina
By: Sarah Reed
Cold in the lot.
rusted face clings to grace.
While etching the copper trace I remember.
That I remember.
Limb through my limb hangs the naked day.
I fight dust,
trace and trace the planned moments of hand.
Hands fill my head
Cold in the lot
Desperation to associate the shoulder beneath head
Copper on my face now rusts to my chest,
weighs the heave,
the ghost of relief
Drop lost stones each place,
dive blades of grass to inspire,
drive weak sun rays to firm yellow.
Open my mouth to the rise of orange sun,
filled by rust,
let go my relief,
filled by o stride driven, until green wakes.
Drawing by: Rachel Bommer
True art is characterized by an irre-
sistible urge in the creative artist.
- Albert Einstein
When you are in Holland
Don't forget your wooden shoes
When you want to relax
Go to a coffee shop
If you are hungry
Buy some cheese
If you want to have sex
Go to the red light district
Do you like sports
Soccer is your game
Do you come in the winter
Bring your skates
And if you are smart
Go to school
Christy- Ann, Tommy, and Jeroen
Darkness, darkness all around
I, alone in the darkness
In all this darkness, nothing can be found
I am alone in this mess
Your hands caress my back
I turn around, looking for you
My angel, my love, my damnation?
For you, there is nothing I would not do
I hunger for you, my obsession
My obsession . . . No, addiction
Will you ever go away?
On the horizon,
I see windmills
On the water,
I see ducks
On the land,
I see farmers
On my bread,
I see cheese
I love my country,
I love Holland
Hendri, Leyla, Marly, and Nick
As the poet said, "Only God can make a tree," probably because it's so
hard to figure out how to get the bark on.
The true work of art is but a shadow of the divine perfection.
A work of art is the unique result of a unique temperment.
- Oscar Wilde
The Lamenting of the Beansighe (Banshee)
16*^ November 2002
I'd rather be an optimist and a
fool, than a pessimist and right.
In the darkness of the night
There can be heard a wail
Tis carried over the trees in flight
Upon the fearful gale
For when you are old and gray
Or even when life is waning
Comes the time; even the day
The Banshee comes a screamin'
She laments for you; it's true
Your spirit is for her taking
Her carriage comes a shreakin'
Now if s time; your final ride
Has stopped for your taking
At the door; your time you bide
The first step is hard makin'
Once inside; her cries subside
You continue on your journey
You realize; that you've died
From the Howling of the Banshee
The Message of This Place
by Sarah Doiel
Everything went wrong,
But the wait won't be long,
Stand up, be strong.
Fight like a man.
Do all that you can.
You should never fail...
Don't be pressured.
Deal with your own issue,
You can't have a problem,
Take the money and rob 'em
Do what it takes to make it to the top.
Walk all over everyone, never stop.
You won't find satisfaction
Until your reaction
Entails misery and discontentment...
Fill your life with entertainment.
Work hard, never get a penny.
Your spouse won't give you any.
Love is little but lust is many.
Save nothing and you spend plenty.
Give yourself away.
Save the blues for another day
When it rains
And you try to explain
Why in the world
Your life left you screwed.
You have nothing left
And everyone's deaf
To other peoples melancholy...
So suck it up and try to get by.
And do all this before you die.
Eyes shut wide open
Photo by Pat Garrison
by Mellissa Isham
Eyes shut wide open, I transcended from a dream, and woke up crying. Non-suicide death letter sent via dreams.
Airmail from heaven to nightmarish scene. A scene of discontentment and torn. Between truth and relate of message, of
maybe pretend illusions that will shake the hearts and minds of many. Many who live- and as of right now. die a little.
Miles, hours away from comfort and familiarity. Instead they drown themselves in non-rejuvenating atmospheres and
what they refer to as non-harsh drugs. In surreal lives where they routinely try to find themselves in the midst of
conformity everyday. And after a weekend of parting there last teen years away- they wake in hangovers to the worst
truth and reality. They wake to death. A boy once lost now found, by god maybe. In Page Park, with syringe in pocket
and nature bedside, he walked to lay his head down for life, and watched the sun rise as he last fell. Maybe he found
beauty in his last attempt to avoid the everyday from loved ones advice to get a clue and straighten up. Maybe, in his
death came doubt. By all who once believed in life, in hope, in god, in beauty, in rebirth, in music, in him. Because he
faded to lack of self-awareness lack of availability-to advice. To truly hear the "please stop". And I can't help but cry for
the many who woke to disbelief and shock. Because they loved him, they loved his music, some his lips in years of
memories, all his art. Dead, but so much more can be said, but words become blurry through visions of autumn grounds
and a boy, laying naked in his own skin on his own truth for all to see and for all to grieve, curled in a ball, thin and
hopeless, beauty and maybe now some sigh of relief. To those who forgot how to sleep at night because he decided to
throw his life away, and it'd be nice for many to think that excuses could be made for this mid-western tragedy. But I
fear only anger and non-enlightenment will arise from the loss of 'this life. Romantic rock star lives that breathe only
surreal, invisible, non-realities. . .lead to death. I lay bedside to beauty that I sometimes truly forget to appreciate, and my
entire soul is saddened because many once laid bedside to beauty that slowly killed himself, and I wonder what there
lives will hold now. What their sleep will be like, what visions and memories will feel like, and how many people will
now put down the essence of cop out chemicals- drugs. Because a life was taken- and then I weep because I fear that
this may only enhance many in their nearly overnight overdosing, because they forgot years back how to deal with life,
and now they have less reason to live. I refuse to become jaded, and cross my fingers that all whom were affected
accept the same hope, after the years it will take to make this into an overcome obstacle.
Never Forever Again
I know that nothingness is inevitable
When you say you're leaving
Into the sunset of my tomorrow.
I pray you hold me once more.
Tell me it's all fine.
Make this go away.
But you've lied straight to my marrow
And you've made me a believer
Of what you believed.
Goodbyes are forever
And you've made this
A day to remember.
A day that Angels will cry
Because their wings are torn.
Their halos lost.
And their eyes shed decaying starlight
Into that which once was forever.
But now will never be again.
by: David Ballard
Whoi I'm lost
And all 1 feel is dark
You open up the sky
Pour light into my heart
Though sorrow is my burden for tonight
Joy will come
With the morning sun
I know it's true
Though I feel so far from you
But you say come
We'll walk in the sand
111 show you what I am
Though sorrow is my burden for tonight
Joy will come
Wth the morning sun.
by Sarah Doiel
I was a stranger in a land not my own
Where they spoke a language I have never known.
Their rituals I have never understood clearly,
Or why they drove out others yearly.
In their voices I had heard
What seemed to be another world.
Sometimes I would lie awake at night
Pondering if to stay was right.
Then one day I would set my mind
To a place I knew I should find.
by Ann Cline
Why does love slip away?
Made by night, leaves by day?
In one moment, passed by time
All your love is no longer mine.
First we kiss and then we part.
But that mere kiss contained my heart.
For at that moment I do stand
And hold your soul wdthin my hand.
It slips so softly, so it seems.
Deep in love; Forever dreams.
m make of you that which is mine
And love a love so dream divine.
But then the mom wiU come shine through
To make mere memory of my darUng you.
So while I weep and kiss you sweet
I pray again that we shall meet.
For I find love, so it seems.
Only in forever dreams.
Photographs by: Craig J Laudicina
Pools of sorrow collect in the valleys of our regret
Looking to her life, as she's dying, with a smile
Wishing I was far from here
Anyplace I haven't been to yet
Mumbles from a silly mouth
That sprouts from a confined soul
I wander around circling
But there's nowhere left to go
Every word I want to say has been spoken
\nd every feeling that captivates me keeps my words prisoner as well
Looking into the eyes of death makes life so much more clear
The melancholy cries slowly disappear
There's no explanation
There's just here
There's just now
And thats how I'm going to leave it
So close the door now
Soft and sweet
Leave me here now
Until again we meet
l-l:M^ -^ >
Pl^^^ W ^
From The Otherside Dreams
By Ayo Paige Carter
I choose to say and hear.
I had many dreams.
I think I am good enough for sake's
The most magnificent love of it all
in courage of in trust.
Such bountiful glories.
StUl sick from the fire.
life between two worlds.
Frantic desires can masquerade.
Judges Requitted even more so.
Just no characters, just no plot.
Not much to say, I am feeling sad.
I have fallen.
Photograph by Molly Chesnut
Infinite beauty exists.
Autumn aromas fill this spiritual void-
That I once longed for anything, even cheapness. So that relevancy would replace
I sit in the middle of season change.
As leaves faU-or dances rather -one by one-slowly
As if their souls were breathing in every aspect of life.
That occupied the air they whispered through.
1 possess a little fear while reminisdng-
As 1 almost became so slightly jaded over the course
Of my bumpy life.
But, 1 didn't want to miss the seasons. . .
The autumn leaves-
Cozy atmospheres, love, pumpkins, mash potatoes
Chili and 'sugar coated mamas' apple pie-
Childhood memories of sitting by the furnace on Benton-
Pretending homelike qualities occupied the chaotic Hving
Space I called house.
So now 1 breathe in this simplistic nature, beauty of a land.
Lying on my back-
I stop dreaming of what 1 wish life could be. Because at this moment I feel complete.
The air is still-
The sky a canvas. . .
Beauty told me so yesterday
After we made love with our lips, our eyes and we to exchanged souls-
Under this very life 1 fulfill a dream.
1 wish everyone in the universe this very moment-
Because unlike the cooperate, typical, secure life-
This is what matters-
This is life changing-
This is pure energy-
This is honesty-
1 could dance as the winds and mid-October
Make me feel beautiful-
And pretty- that I don't mind.
The Holy Order of Ralph
by: Richard Pulf er
Things To Do
Get up in the morning.
Get Uf e back together.
Get flaming sword.
Read Far Side Strips.
Wash dirt off hands.
Wash oil off face.
Wash dandruff off hair.
Wash spots off car.
Wash scales off wings.
Photographs by Craig J Laudicina
Smite the urge to eat.
Smite the sloth to slack.
Smite the spur to spar.
Smite the lust to love.
Smite the devU again.
Consult Cciin for anger management issues.
Consult Beezlebub for anti-virus software.
Consult Helcate for stock tips.
Consult Bable for network infrasture.
Consult Ludfer for free advice.
Call BiUy for insurance policy.
Call Bob for accounting stats.
Call Dante for website info.
Call Virgil for directions.
Call Promethusforpain killers.
Tear off today's Far Side Comic.
Sign out, check out, log out, punch out...
Fall from grace
Repeat steps 1A9. Rinse and lather
Artwork by: Jason "I got your back" Huntress
Voices Editors: Molly Chesnut, Kelsey Barrick, Jason Berger, James Dewitt, Sarah Doiel, Morgan Ekem,
Sheila Fields, Hayley Grtndle, Ryan Grove, Jamie HoUis, MeUissa Isham, Lorraine O'Beime, MoUy F*ierce,
Richard I\ilf er, Diana Ramirez, Sarah Reed, EHda Ross
AUisonTompson, and Bryan West, with Jason Huntress,
and with much thanks to Craig Laudidna.
Apologies if there's anyone we failed to mention.
J Thanks to you all.
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